


So High, So Far (To Fall)

by focusfightwin



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season 0 (Apex Legends)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:08:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24261829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/focusfightwin/pseuds/focusfightwin
Summary: Anita tends to Ajay's wounds after the Games.(Picks at some of her own.)
Relationships: Bangalore | Anita Williams/Lifeline | Ajay Che
Comments: 7
Kudos: 24





	So High, So Far (To Fall)

**Author's Note:**

> So! I started this WIP when the game launched, forgot about it, then went in and finished it uhh *checks calendar* over a year later. Nice. Needless to say I still love Apex, Lifeline and Bangalore so here, have some lifelore fic. It's mostly Bangalore-centric gen with some lifelore leanings, because femslash!!! I haven't posted fic in literal years so I'm still rusty, and just doing this to have a Good Time. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy! ^^; 
> 
> Huge shoutout to Choco, aka [chocochipbiscuit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/), who's listened to me bounce between WIPs and and fandoms for years. You've given me a lot of confidence and support and inspired me so much with your fics, I only hope to write as well as you do. owo <3 
> 
> And another shoutout for Chini. I was wavering on my involvement in the Apex fandom until we met, and I'm so glad we did. <3

Bangalore scans the horizon, squinting against the harsh glare of the midday sun. She shields her eyes, soaking in what little she can see; the cramped vantage of an apartment window doesn’t make for the best of watchtowers, but it’s enough. Ocean stretches for miles around, far out in the distance. The water’s crystal clear, a perfect mirror of the powder blue skies overhead. Sunlight glistens over the waves, breaking slow against the rocky edges of the island. It’s rare she gets the time to appreciate Solace’s scenery when she’s competing in the Apex Games. Between the training, the rehab, and the Games themselves, there’s barely time to breathe, but the rural islands at the edges of Kings Canyon make a pretty sight, so she savours the view. 

Sundunes run the edges of the skyline, dry and arid, hazed with heat; unending swaths of orange and red, pocked with green-blue alien megafauna, sprawling and elaborate. The arena’s Repuslor tower keeps the beasts away, allowing some small semblance of humanity to thrive in this damn dust bowl.

A far cry from the sprawling megacities kept inside Solace’s metropolitan districts, sure, but a prime example of making the best with what you’ve got. Bangalore’s tucked in one of a half dozen identical rooms lined across, with another half dozen above, another half dozen below. All stacked in on each other, tight and stuffy. Box cities erected overnight for the influx of settlers to the Outlands after the war’s end; ragtag communities forged from repurposed shipping crates, scavenged defensive structures, anything the refugees could find when they settled. 

It’s all sharp lines, corrugated steel; concrete slabs for walls and comfort. 

Competent. Sufficient. Home. 

A rumble of voices draws her attention to the day market below. Bleached, tattered canopies thread the length of the market, shielding from the midday sun. Fabric rolls in the breeze, kicks off the sand. It’s busy, loud, with folk drifting from stall to stall, not a care in the world; a slow crawl of bodies and movement all tinged with neon, choked with dust. Food market is what’s drawn ‘em in, a suite of smells drifting from the stalls. Sweet fried cinnamon churros, smoked leviathan jerky, a stall proclaiming to sell Witt’s famous BBQ pork chops, even. 

It’s quaint set up, all things considered. Some might even call it peaceful. 

But all Bangalore sees is sightlines to engage and pockets of cover from incoming fire. It’s all she ever sees. In the arena, out here; in her dreams, even, twisted into nightmares. Everything else feels like set-dressing, a veneer that could shatter at any moment, fracture into a million tiny pieces. 

Can’t get away. Can’t distance from it. 

Stopped trying a long time ago. 

That’s why she’s here. That’s why she’s part of the Apex Games; the wayward soldier lost in exile, fighting her off this rock, one body at a time. She doesn’t suit the civvie lifestyle, doesn’t play well off her — too slow, too mundane. Unfamiliar.

She’s at home on the field. With the 401st and the rest of the IMS Hestia, where the language is blood and violence, not peace and _community._ The Apex Games are as close as she gets to the real thing, with the bonus of scrounging up credits to buy her way home. 

Bangalore looks out, watching the market. Gazing, searching, _searching_ — 

And like a bolt — she’s there. 

Spent gunpowder fills her nose, tastes the lead sharp on her tongue, metal in her mouth. Her hands sting from the heat of her rifle as she unloads a mag into some poor schmuck that picked a fight — a faceless silhouette dropping like deadweight — and Bangalore is unwavering, _unstoppable._ Shadows snake in the smoke, lurch across the battlefield; some battered up stilt town down at the neck of the river. The Ring shrinks, and the fight snakes into the overgrown underbelly of Kings Canyon, deep in the swamps. 

It’s a rush of blood and sweat and smoke and it’s here Bangalore feels _alive,_ adrenaline flowing hot through her veins. Everyone’s scrambling to stay alive and making mistake after mistake, and of _course_ they do when they’re all the same, all inexperienced punks wanting to play killer in a simulated bloodsport. Here for the fame and glory of battle without the skill to support it, haven’t put in the time. They’re nothing compared to her. Nothing against Bangalore. A seasoned soldier knows when to hold their ace, ready to throw it down just when everyone’s getting a bit _too_ comfortable.

And that’s what she does. Her flare sits like a bomb in her pocket. Quick snap of the case and it’s cutting red through the mildew of the swamps, through the smoke; sparks splutter from the casing like an open wound. Bleeds fresh, turns red, redder. A dewy glow in the ash.

For a quick second, the fight lapses — blink and you miss it kinda quick — and the shadows scatter, run for the houses. All too late, though, as the skies come alive and blister an eye-searing white. Burns bright, brighter — ‘till a dozen rockets puncture the clouds and spear into the ground, strike up the water and earth and mould it all anew. Mud on her boots, water and grime splashed up her fatigues. She swaps her rifle for a shotgun — Peacekeeper, lever action, energy actuated — and damn, everyone’s in for a _real_ show now. 

That’s when Bangalore gives it everything she’s been holding back. 

The heavens roll with thunder, a full throated roar as her artillery explodes. It catches ‘em in a stun first, bleary eyed and shellshocked; peels back their shields, knocks ‘em on their asses. And now they’re gonna learn how it really feels when you’re down and out in the field. When everyone’s outta bullets, outta meds and time, and when you’re tired, thinking — praying — for the fight to be over. 

But it’s not. The war is never done. 

Clear these FNGs and it’s onto the next set. Tap, rack and clear. The arena feels like an amusement park compared to a real battlefield, a concentrated experience without the downtime. All so close, so near, so present that Bangalore already hears it — that pop pop pop of distant gunfire that runs like a disjointed drumbeat, echoing for miles around. It rattles in her skull like the smoke cans on her holster. 

Another fight, another win. One step to getting off this rock. 

Adrenaline runs thick and fast through her veins and she feels it all over.

And it’s good. _Good._

The gunfire is her siren song, her call to arms; the sound she’ll follow into the jaws of hell ‘till she can’t walk another step. ‘Cause there’s always gonna be another fight — the war, the Apex Games, and everything between — and Bangalore’s always gonna be on the front line, down in the dirt — 

“Hey, ‘Nita,” comes a voice from behind. Quiet, strained. Sounds a million miles away. “I — _ah_ — I think I need some help with this one.” 

And just as fast as she barreled in, Anita’s thrown back out, rooted in reality. It hits her like a train: the war is done. She’s not in the arena anymore. _Bangalore_ is just a callsign — a persona for the Apex Games, a name to revere and a legend to watch with awe, watch with fear. It fades when doors close.

But everything else is there. Still there. Just beneath the surface. 

Anita pushes from the window. Her attention turns from the outside, turns inward. Lifeline — _Ajay_ — sits at the couch with her arm over the rest, legs crossed, an ashtray placed precariously on her lap. She’s got her kit strewn out all over the coffee table. Bundles of syringes tied together with elastics, stacks of beaten up medkits; her healer drone deshelled, running diagnostic repairs. A pair of drumsticks sit tucked away in the backpack leaned against the couch, safe, like they mean something. 

Thick cable wires run over the floor, the table, back over themselves, over everywhere, hooked up to a dingy generator rumbling in the corner. A low, guttural groan growls from the exhaust; Anita eyes it wearily. Sounds about half a day from breaking again. 

“What’d ya need from me, Che,” Anita asks, stepping towards her. 

“Just check that I got it all out,” Ajay replies, struggling to look over the wound on the back of her arm. Her brows dart up as Anita approaches a tangle of wiring and blood-soaked rags — “Don’t _trip_ on ya way over here,” Ajay cautions, swift, and Anita recalculates her trajectory to the couch with an agile sidestep. 

This would be a six-five-two barrack violation back at base. Squad Sergeant would chew you the fuck out for this kind of mess. Bangalore would know — that Sergeant was her, after all. And hell if she wasn’t a hardass sometimes back on Hestia. Only way she kept the damn 401st in line. 

Not that Anita’s gonna say anything here. This is Ajay’s apartment, not hers. Anita’s room is a floor below and five boxes to the left. It’s smaller, and there’s no view, just the shining sheet metal of the next bloc ahead. The decor of her room is standard regs, kept clean. Bare. Stripped back. Easy to process.

But Ajay’s box is something else. It shares the same utilitarian nature all the boxes have — one window, a recess in the side that’s supposed to be a kitchen, and an even smaller back room for a bed — but Ajay’s made it her own, that’s for sure. Plush throws and pillows over the dog-chewed couch, all pink and blue to mask the muted grays; with a hefty rug over the chipped concrete floor. 

An ornate tapestry covers the back wall, a deep maroon with gold thread woven through it — a gift from Hound, all their own handiwork. Took weeks of stitching, a gift to Ajay after winning her first games. 

It’s all all personable, distinctly Ajay — loud, vibrant, but everything’s got a story. 

“Organized chaos,” is what Ajay calls it, capped off with a sheepish smile. 

Her and Ajay make do, but Anita would be lying to say these are the best digs on offer. There’s other options further in land. There’s the Apex Center, the Sponsor Suites; viable, functional, _luxurious,_ even — but God, you feel _owned._ Under the watchful eye of the Gamemakers and the Syndicate, with the pressers wanting to claw in, get something for their holopapers. They’ll catch you between sectors, ask the same damn questions, expecting an answer. 

“Is this grisly bloodsport really what you want to be doing with your life, Bangalore?” The likes of Angela Fazia ask with a recorder shoved in Anita’s face, a holodrone far too close for comfort. “What example does this set for the Outlands, fresh from the war?”

— (What do you remember when you last spoke to your brother, Anita? Why are you lying? It was Christmas, not Thanksgiving. Have you listened to the blackbox? Do you care if I publish your last moments with him? If I call you a liar, a bloodthirsty grunt with nothing better to do than to kill and keep _killing?_ ) — 

But when it comes to having some goddamn _privacy,_ this is as good as it gets. The money’s decent, a sliver of the unfathomable wealth held by Blisk and the Syndicate, but it’s enough. 

(Enough to get home. Eventually.)

There’s a sharp _clink_ as another piece of shrapnel hits the rim of the ashtray. Ajay’s managed to tweeze a lot out on her own. She’s a seasoned combat medic, after all. The Apex Games are child’s play compared to the real deal. A real battlefield, with real casualties — no fancy medi-tech to bring you back, bankrolled by sponsors. It’s an experience Anita and Ajay understand, better than anyone else in the Games, even if they’re on opposite sides of the field. 

Medic, soldier; healer, killer. IMC. Militia. Not so clear in the arena, all runs together. 

All bleed the same.

“May I,” Anita asks, habitual. Takes the same tone as she takes in the dropship, when they’re en-route to the arena and she locks in the seat next to her. 

“Get ya self comfortable, luv,” Ajay replies, light. Anita breaks a smile, despite herself; it’s what Ajay says back to her on the ship.

Anita skirts some equipment aside and sits at the edge of the coffee table, gets a look over the wound. It’s a gash a few inches long on her arm, wrapped around the curve of her bicep. Deep. It’s not pretty — not life threatening either, but it needs some help. 

“Take it under the light,” Ajay intructs. She stretches, rubbing her neck; must hurt after looking over her shoulder so awkwardly. 

Anita hums in acknowledgement, reaching over the table for a pack of gloves. Tears the plastic, pulls them on with a snap of latex. Got an air of authority to it. She leans in, places her fingers either side of the wound, uses her free hand to angle the desk lamp nearby. Need to get a close look for any last pieces of shrapnel reflecting under the light. The EVA-8 Auto’s got a ridiculous spread, even for a shotty; even if you aren’t the target, but you’re unlucky enough to be nearby, it’s still gonna get you. Bad. 

It’s what happened in Swamps. Caught in the crossfire between two enemy squads firing blind and reckless in one of the houses, a last ditch attempt to keep the fight going between Ring rotation. Ajay caught the ass end of Mirage’s precise, _wonderful_ shooting; aiming for the over-friendly MRVN bot and shot Ajay instead. 

“Decoy boy betta watch his back,” Ajay murmurs, sipping her water bottle. “Betta hope he ain’t needin’ any _defibrillation_ when _I’m_ nearby.” 

Anita laughs, low, glancing over to the drone. It’s built for healing, pump a patient with meds and whatever else they need to get back in the fight, but Ajay’s got a special requisite for a defib shock, too, which also comes in handy for both friendlies _and_ hostiles. 

“Next time,” Anita says, adjusting, “I’ll make sure to leave him for you.” 

Mirage tried it with the wrong squad, that’s for sure. Anita turned that EVA right back on him, pried it from his hands and shouldered him to the ground. He tried to flee, deploy a dozen copies and bail, but Bangalore knows how to pick Eillott from a crowd — even if the crowd is all him, over and over. Made quick work of his entourage, picking off copy after copy until she found him — the _real_ him, the Witt made with flesh and bone and blood, blood everywhere. 

Ajay smiles as she finishes her drink, cocks a brow. 

“Mm. I enjoyed the show,” she says, casual; sounds like she didn’t mind Anita taking the kill. 

Anita turns her attention back to Ajay’s arm, brow furrowed. From what she can see, it looks clean, with no gleans of metal under the light. But if they screw this up and it gets infected — could have them both out of commission for next Games, so Anita wants to be certain. 

‘Cause there’s no way in hell she’s gonna run the Games without Ajay. That’s just asking to die. 

The dingy light from the lamp barely helps. The bulb’s mottled with some kind of gritty, gray-green space dirt. Looks like it’s gonna eat the damn thing, pop the bulb and devour what’s inside. Anita presses, hoping to get a better view — 

“Ow ow _ow—_ ” Ajay hisses, the increase of pressure too much too fast, breath sharp though her teeth. “Gentle, gentle.” 

“Sorry,” Anita says, quick, and her hands still. She pulls back, looking blind at the table again. She’s got medical training, but it’s more how to keep someone breathing until the real Docs — docs like Ajay — get their hands on ‘em. All fast decisions, hard pressure. Everything on a knife’s edge. It’s nothing like this. Anita rolls her shoulders, clears her head. It’s obvious the damn thing needs stitches, and Ajay can’t stitch her own arm.

But first, it’s in dire need of a clean up.

Anita reaches for a fresh towel, and — _gentle, gentle_ — cleans the blood from Ajay’s arm, with only minor protest. It’s all cracked and dried, coagulated, with fresh rivulets running streams down her skin. Runs over Ajay’s ink, too; intricate patterns from her neck to her elbow. Never noticed her tats before. 

She’d compliment her on it, but it doesn’t seem like Ajay’s up for conversation. Got head turned, eyes screwed shut; lips pursed in a thin line. Muscles all tight, bracing against the contact.

“I’m gonna need to press down to stop the bleeding,” Anita says, quiet. “Hold onto me. Okay?”

Ajay swallows, thick. “‘Kay.” 

Anita takes a breath. Steels herself. As Sergeant, you’ve gotta be calm. Keep the squad settled, focused, even when you’re shaking on the inside. This is no different. She takes Ajay’s hand in her own, offering herself as an outlet to channel the pain. Ajay takes her hand, signals her readiness with a stiff nod, and Anita presses the towel. Firm, swift, steady pressure. 

A small sound escapes Ajay’s mouth, pained. Anita knows Ajay expected it, but she’s still surprised by the strength of Che’s grip.

But she’s gotta do it. No half measures. Hesitation is what gets you killed out here. 

It’s still hard to watch, though, even if they both know it’s necessary. Ajay winces, biting back any sounds of discomfort, iridescent nails digging half moons into Antia’s hand. 

It’d be so much easier if they could just numb it. 

But there’s no medicine left, so they’re having to do this raw. No pain relief. 

They burned through the last of their supplies during round five in the arena; an eight squad firefight that stretched hours in the swamps. The Ring swallowed them up to a single building by round six, thinned the numbers to three. Anita, Ajay — _Bangalore, Lifeline_ — and some guy with a bunch of gas traps. He’d bunkered up in the final building, lauding the positional advantage. Just waiting for the Ring to close, watching with that eerie stillness Nox is known for; like a wolf waiting for prey to approach his den, unknowing of what waits inside. 

Expecting them to be predictable. Desperate.

Almost were. 

But what won the Games today was a flash of impulsivity, not following a trend. 

The memory sits in her head with perfect clarity, a recollection that is almost too clear, too bright; every detail enhanced and accuented. It’s like she’s watching it in one of the viewing bars at the Apex Center. Tight, crowded tables of spectators watching the Games, packed with the Outlands’ undesirables. Think Warlords, Profiteers — crooks with too many credits, just itching to burn ‘em on care packages. Sit back with a drink, and watch the bloodbath that unravels afterwards, highlighted from every angle. And in her mind, Anita’s there with them. 

Watching herself. 

Watching herself _run._

The Ring’s closing in and Bangalore feels the heat of it at her back. Ajay is moments ahead, rushing for the house. Anita takes stock of their surroundings, and _shit,_ it’s bad. The house is the best option. Built on stilts and about as sturdy as a house of toothpicks, sure, but it’s better than being caught out in the open. There’s a gaping hole on the side of the roof. An entry point for an ambush, maybe, but — 

Her sight darts to the center as a care package touches down, a sick promise of meds and weaponry bestowed by the Gamemakers, just when they need it most. It’s designed to bait a fight — but it's there, waiting, if they get there fast enough. Before Nox does, before the Ring razes them. And it might be enough to get her and Ajay through. 

But it’s close. Too close. 

Bangalore’s jaw tightens, grip steely on her Scout; a mix of anxiety and anger running heavy in her blood, head pounding. All this fighting — sixteen kills, three squad wipes, all with a G7 and a peacekeeper — and they’re gonna lose to a shitty Ring rotation? Gonna lose to _Nox,_ some freakshow with a bunch of gas bombs that got lucky playin’ a like a wet fish? 

Nah. Not today.

Got her sights on Lifeline. She’s the priority. She makes it outta this, no question, so Bangalore works back from there. Best case is that they get through together, worst is Nox gets a load of credits and fame for doing nothing. Gotta strike somewhere in the middle, strike when the iron’s hot, even if you run the risk of getting burned. 

So what is she gonna do — play it safe? No. No. Sergeant Anita Williams _might,_ she might tell Jackie to go slow and ignore the noise on the hull and get everyone on the IMS Hestia ripped apart into tiny fucking pieces. She’ll chew on that memory for the best part of a decade, let it turn her inside out; second guess every single decision, fuck her judgement — leave her hollow and mourning, forever guilty. 

That’s not what Bangalore does. 

Bangalore’s all smoke, bullets, hellfire. Bangalore doesn’t play it _safe._ No time for grief, to work the fine details. Shoot first, questions later. That’s how she’s gotten this far. How she swept through the Syndicate’s laborious training to compete in the Games with ease. How she got the eyes of the Blisk and the pressers and the whole Outlands to see her as more than some washed up grunt. It’s how she fights, and keeps fighting. She makes the waves. She dictates the fight. Doesn’t get caught on the backfoot. 

And now the fight’s closing in, closing to a pinhead. 

And she’s gotta make a choice.

Her flare sits like a bomb in her pocket. Bangalore takes her rifle in one hand, unclips the flare from her holster, feels the weight of it in her hand. Feels that trepidation next, itch of her finger on the trigger — voice in the back of her head, pulling against her judgement. Breath shallow in her lungs, heart pounding, the blare of the siren telling her the Ring is closing no matter what she does. 

_Commit, Williams,_ Bangalore tells herself. _Commit._

There’s a sharp hiss as the casing breaks. A rush of red, bright and blinding, reflecting against her chestplate. Anita tightens her jaw. Brings her shoulder back, puts her weight into it, and — Bangalore throws the flare, right into the middle of the Ring. 

Anita stills, watching it go. A brilliant streak of red cuts through the humid fog; makes contact with the ground and burns, crackles like a firework. It’s a flare to Blisk, to the Gamemakers and the Syndicate and the whole goddamn Outlands — one that says: _I’m not done._

_Not even close._

The flare rolls up to the edge of the care package, clinks the metal, and — Nox is there. He’s run out to get the supplies. A small surprise, confirmation that the guy _can_ move, just chooses to play so fucking passive — but now it’s gonna be even better. The barrage is gonna give her and Ajay room to rotate to the trees, rush to claim the house if they need it, and watch that crazy bastard die to her missiles or the Ring, whichever comes first.

A perfect role reversal. The closest she’ll get to writing poetry. 

It’s gonna be beautiful. It’s gonna blow them all away. 

One flaw, though. One thing Bangalore didn’t account for.

She’s stopped moving. The Ring is still closing.

And it swallows her. 

Pain comes so fast she doesn’t have time to process. It hits like a storm, an electric wall of fire that explodes on impact; flames sparking, crawling over her. One moment she’s lucid, standing, got her facilities clear — next she’s struggling to breathe, vision hazed and bloody, trapped in a bone-crushing deathgrip. 

Anita braces against the pain: grits her teeth, squares her shoulders, holds it in her core. Push past it, _push past it._ Don’t let it through. Because once that pain’s caught you, there’s no way of getting out. It’s how the Ring operates — force you down, wear you out ‘till you submit. Can’t let that happen. Not now. Not after everything. All that conditioning in bootcamp’s gotta pay off sometime, but — the Ring is unique, something you can’t prepare for. A sensation between shock and fire, something that suckerpunches you over and over, hooks deep into your tissues, flays from the inside out. 

Longer you’re here, the worse it gets — and the space between Bangalore and the threshold of the Ring only grows wider, a searing sea of red in her wake. But unlike the usual chaos of the Apex Games, all the noise, the gratuitous violence — the Ring utilises no such fanfare. Nothing excessive, elaborate.

The Ring kills you quick, quiet.

So quiet. 

Ajay doesn’t even know. She’s too far ahead, too far gone. 

Couldn’t hear Antia scream, even if she could.

Inch by inch, cell by cell, Bangalore feels herself falling. And that masterplan, that grand strategy that’s gonna win them the Games and put Nox in the ground — it’s all gone. She feels the push of the Ring forcing her to her knees. But when you’re IMC, there’s no fucking way you surrender. That much you know. So Anita holds it and braces even as her legs buckle, even as her shoulders shrink in and she feels like she’s gonna curl in on herself. Her muscles seize tighter, _tighter_ — 

Until she can’t hold it anymore. 

Her body slackens, and Bangalore drops like deadweight, body thumping to the ground.

If you’re talking poetry, this is about as poetic as it gets. Killed by your own moves. Your own ego. No one else to blame but yourself, Williams. No one told you to stay here, watch your own barrage like it’s television. Ain’t got the vantage of a pretty screen now, though; only the consequence of getting caught in the moment, choked up by some old world nostalgia. 

Now she’s outta meds, outta time, caught in a shallow grave of swamp water. Anita coughs as water razes her lungs, sharp and stinging; she splutters, trying to breathe. Her muscles burn and her vision’s seared red, burning blood red. Eardrums blown out, a piercing sound drilling into her skull. Can’t tell if she’s alive or dead or if she’s already been relayed to a triage chamber. 

It’s all lost to the Ring. It’s fried her shields and cutting into her tissues, surgical.

But hell if she’s gonna die here. 

Anita feels the cold earth under her hands, wet and malleable. Twists so she’s prone, flat to the ground. Can’t see, can’t hear, but she’s got just enough left in her to move a few paces. She pushes up on elbows, arms shaking, throat tight — and drags herself through the mud and the water, limbs heavy, aching. No way of knowing how close she is to the threshold of the Ring, blind and helpless. 

There’s a clicking sound in her ear. Interference on the comm channels.

Anita looks up, and a swarm of drone cams hover overhead; half a dozen hazy silhouettes, obscured by the waves of the Ring. They click around her, watch, hover, making sure to capture Bangalore’s final moments in perfect clarity. Every angle, every part of her — put out for display. 

No different from dyin’ in the war, she thinks in some twisted way. Always gotta make you a hero when you die on the field, keep that morale high. IMC had a knack for it. Purple heart. A hero’s burial. At least at the start. By the end, though, all the IMC could offer was a ticker-tape of KIA’s at the bottom of their status reports; the casualties got so high so fast, you couldn’t keep up. Meanwhile, the Militia had crap like the _MacAllan_ — got that traitor held up high for all the Frontier to see, named a damn warship after him. 

Can't help but think — what would the Syndicate do? If she died here for real? If the regen tech cuts out? 

The drone cams leave her, speeding ahead.

Anita gets her answer. 

The Ring bends to accommodate the drones, and she uses the space to get an idea of what’s going on up ahead. Drones flicker in the leaves, and it’s only a few feet. That’s all there is between Bangalore and Ring. Barely more than a few steps. But it’s so, so far.

And she can’t get there. 

Lifeline’s pressed against the back of a tree. Breaths ragged, eyes wide and wild. Ajay’s good at adapting to the battle, adjusting to things already set in motion: the close of the Ring, the sky’s crackling with thunder — Bangalore’s thunder — and how Nox’s retreated to the house again, playing safe. 

Just where the barrage is gonna hit. 

Perfect.

There’s no escape for Nox. No escape for Anita either, chest tight and lightheaded, losing consciousness — the Ring’s suffocating her, electricity wrapped around her body like a coil, constricting tight.

But Ajay’s safe where she is. Just gotta hold it and let this shitshow roll through. Let the missiles do their thing. She’ll be able to outheal Nox with her drone, land a decent hit on him with her longbow if she needs to. 

The Games only need one victor, after all. The Gamemakers like a lone wolf. Easy to market. 

Easy to control, too. 

Stay alive, keep moving. That’s all Lifeline’s gotta do. 

But Ajay turns back instead. 

She pushes from the tree and crosses into the Ring. It goes quiet, dead silent, until Anita feels hands clawing at her — and it’s Ajay. Ajay’s hands on her shoulders, pushing Anita so she's on her back, vision skyward. All she sees is the curve of the arena; the pressure of the Ring crushing down on her chest. Ajay unhooks Anita’s chestplate, eyes on her. 

Calm, steady. 

There’s worse ways to die. If she had to choose — and if this was the war and not some combat simulation on steroids — having Ajay there would be a good way to go. 

The edges of her vision go hazy. Feels herself falling, slipping unconscious — 

When Ajay unsheathes a syringe from her pocket and punches it deep into Anita’s chest. Her vision blows out, a blinding shot of adrenaline that brings her back from the brink of death. Everything comes clear like dawn and daybreak; first light, a dreamlike rebirth. Still caught out of the Ring, still bleeding out, but Anita can move, breathe. Feel the twitch of her trigger finger. That’s all she needs. 

Ajay stands, sight darting over her shoulder, and reaches to pull Anita up. Ajay hooks Antia’s arm over her shoulder, wrapping her hand around Anita’s waist. Holds her tight, and for good reason — because just as Anita stands, she starts to fall back again. Adrenaline’s no cure for bullet holes and battle damage, that much Anita becomes keenly aware of. Legs limp, head wrecked, still feels halfway close to dying. She’s in no fit state to fight. She’s just a liability. 

Ajay’s got seconds, moments before it’ll knock her too, but her DOC’s on her six, offsetting the damage. She shouldn’t be here. She should be in the Ring. She had the advantage.

But she’s here instead. Helping her.

“We stick together, hero,” Ajay scolds, voice strained. “No matter what — ya hear me?” 

Anita mumbles something close to acknowledgement, a sound low in her throat. Ajay takes her weight, and together they cross the threshold of the Ring, back on field. 

Ajay takes her deep into the trees, lays her down. Shifts so she’s on her knees, and props Anita’s head up, gentle, rested in Ajay’s lap. The thunder grows louder, a bone-deep growl overhead, but all Ajay’s focused on is her. It’s like nothing else matters. The heat of the Ring closeby, the clouds glistening silver as Anita’s barrage breaks into orbit — Ajay doesn’t even bat an eye. She’s setting up her DOC instead with her fingers pressed to Anita’s neck, checking a pulse, counting the beats. Still composed. Even in all the chaos. Ajay clicks off Anita’s armor, fixes DOC pads to her skin. Sharp pain as the tubes fix in place, followed by a euphoric wave of relief from the meds. 

“I’m — I’m good,” Anita finds herself saying, “I got this. I got—”

“That’s the morphine talkin’, sugar,” Ajay murmurs, soft, keeping her down. “We can’t—” 

Ajay’s cut short by the sound of artillery hammering down overhead. Her sight darts up, and Anita follows her eyes. Together, they look toward the last house. That’s where the barrage’s gotta hit for this to work. Ajay’s body stills, and Anita’s got her eyes set on that goddamn house. They watch the missiles fall from above. A path of missiles spear down into the mud and earth and mould it all anew, following Anita’s throw with ruthless precision. It runs up to Nox’s den and drills deep into the rotten wood, the waterlogged foundation. 

Anita’s throat tightens. 

Here we go, Williams. All that talk about moves and tactics, playing the long game. All comes down to this. One last hurrah.

Just hope it’s enough.

Anita watches for one, two. Dust swirls in the air, catches distant birdsong. Something so close to peaceful.

And it ends in one helluva lightshow. 

The house ignites with a blast of red and white and orange, all fire and fury and heat all at once. Anita takes it in, feels it sweep through the fibers of her — so bright and vivid and it doesn’t feel real. There’s a distance between her, the Games, like she’s watching it — watching herself — from the outside. Body and mind set apart, competing and vulnerable. Can’t even hear the explosion but knows what it should sound like. Knows how she should feel. But it’s all gone. Numb. Edges of her vision hazy in a different way, blurred and cotton-like. 

Only thing that keeps her rooted is Ajay’s hand on her chest, fingers in her hair, threading through her curls. 

Voice in her ear. Soft, quiet. 

“Don’t go dyin’ on me now, ‘Nita,” Ajay whispers. Tries to joke, but her voice wavers from the lasting pain of the Ring. “It’s — almost over. I promise.” 

Plumes of smoke and gas escape from what’s left of the house. The air crawls with the smell of burnt wood and mildew. There’s a strange, oppressive silence. Seconds splinter into moments, into milliseconds and the pain from the Ring radiates like a fire; time stands still. Holds for one, two, until one last half primed missile detonates with a dull _thud._

The announcer echoes through the swamps, speaking from the trees. 

_“The winners are decided,”_ She says, robotic. _“Congratulations. You are the Apex Champions.”_

The rest is a blur. The Ring fades, the pain remains, with all the wounds sustained from the Games coming up to the surface, a consequence of being caught out of the Ring. Bruises bloom under Anita’s skin, and that familiar ache sweeps over her. 

(Game’s done. Now you’re on your own.)

Anita looks up to Ajay. Swallows, thick. That gnarly flesh wound on her arm’s bleeding again. Flesh pulled back open by the Ring. Damn it. Damn it. Anita should be happy, elated that they won, but instead her pain twists into guilt, this gnawing feeling in her gut. Could’ve played it different. Ajay didn’t need to suffer for her. 

And hell if this’ll play well with the Syndicate. The Gamemakers want something more personal. Something that sells.

“You shoulda killed him,” Anita mumbles, thick. “It’s what they want.”

(Or maybe that’s what you want, Anita, something deep and intimate to fill the space where your drive used to be. Make you _feel_ something.)

"It's not what _I_ want," Ajay replies, defiant. “I wanna keep you alive, Anita. The Syndicate? They don’t own us.” 

_They don’t own us._

Worms around in her head. 

Never thought about it like that. Been so long in the IMC — with that unwavering loyalty that’s instilled in you from the moment you pick up your first pistol — you know to be thankful for the hand that feeds you. And maybe that means playing fast and loose with your life in the Games, and the hell does it matter when they always bring you back, anyway? But she doesn’t want to please them. Nah. No.

Just wants to follow the orders given. Follow without compromise, because that's what she's been trained for.

She’d like to think it was calculated, all moves and countermoves. Most of the time it is. But this was desperation — the Gamemakers would’ve killed them all if it went on for any longer. Closed the ring to a pinhole and lasered everyone left. Watch ‘em scream, suffer. Because if there’s one thing Blisk hates more than whoever he’s contracted to kill — it’s _timewasters_. 

There’s always a victor. Always a champion, just before dusk. 

* * *

Still, Ajay pinged that damn resupply request to requisitions _hours_ ago, but the Syndicate is taking its sweet ass time sending it over. A fuck you for not giving them a victory worthy of replaying, probably; if it was all blood and violence, up close and personal — maybe it’d be different. Trade routes are pretty fraught in this sector of the Frontier, too, even if they did want to roll out the red carpet; with the space pirates, the gangs, all fighting for resources. The Syndicate provides some small semblance of order, but it’s a free for all out there as much as it is inside the arena. 

Ajay’s medicating in other ways, though, even without the meds. She reaches for a half full bottle of rum and takes a swig. Anita catches the scent: coconut, pineapple, maybe a hint of lemon. All synthetic tastes— flavors of her home planet, Psamathe. Nostalgic, almost.

Relatable. 

“I think it’s good, Ajay,” Anita says, eyes on Ajay’s wound. “What now?” 

“Mind rinsin’ the rag?” Ajay asks, setting the bottle down. “Let’s get this thing stitched.”

Anita takes the rag and stands, moving from the couch to a sink nearby. It juts out from the wall alone — no other appliances, no counters, even. Ajay’s fashioned something close to a counter with a scratched up side table, home to a few of Ajay’s many trinkets. Earrings, nail polish, boxes of hair dye in about every shade you could think of. A letter tucked neat to the side; one of the dozens of fan letters Ajay receives. A common occurrence, expected fanfare with Ajay being the darling of the Apex Games. Anita can’t help but think of how barren her place is by comparison. No letters, keepsakes from home. All gone, lost with Hestia. 

This place is about as basic as it gets, though. Even the IMC’s barracks had a food court someplace, a microwave in your dorm, so you can at least pretend what you’re eating isn’t anything more than an MRE. Not the Box-cities, though, just vending machines lined around the back alleys, refreshed by MRVN units every few weeks; running on outdated code to sustain the populous. Explains why the market is such an attraction. It’s the closest thing they get to real food. 

But it’s not the Apex Center. It’s not being under Blisk’s thumb, or any of the Gamemakers’.

So that’s gotta count for something.

“A real Champion’s retreat,” Anita finds herself saying, dry. “Not exactly what I’d imagined.” 

“Doesn’t matter to me,” Ajay replies, indifferent. “Not here for the fancy hotels or caviar. All for show."

“Yeah,” Anita replies, peeling off her gloves. “Same.”

There’s a tightness in her throat, a swift stab of anxiety to her chest. Anita rolls her shoulders, looks up and swallows, thick. Fuck. Push past it, _push past it._ Don’t let it through. You’re gonna get home, Anita. Someday.

In an airship or a bodybag, you’re gonna get there.

Anita squeezes the rag, and Ajay’s blood runs between her fingers; she watches as it washes away in the water, swirls red in the ring. She heads back, swipes a suture kit from the side and sits on the edge of the coffee table. Sets the kit beside her, pops the plastic casing, tears the pack of gloves. 

Fresh gloves, fresh mind. 

Keep steady. 

“I mean,” Anita continues, “A diet of champagne and caviar is gonna have you shootin’ drunk in the arena, anyway.” 

“Maybe that’s why they don’t last long,” Ajay replies, lighter.

“Maybe,” Anita says, but the kill tracker in her back pocket tells her different. 

Anita takes a deep breath through her nose. Adrenaline’s still pumping, thrumming electric through her veins. Free flowing, intoxicating. She’s still occupied with the Games, caught in a feedback loop of gunfire and smoke and how good it feels. All still inside her, just beneath the skin, itching to be set loose, and — fuck, what she’d give to be back in the arena right now. It makes her want to run laps around the bloc until it’s finally gone, so she finally _rest._ Or do what she did in the IMC, at the Apex Center — burn it off in the gym, hit the range; run her thoughts into the ground until she’s so tired she can barely put one foot in front of the other. Crawl into her cot and sleep dreamless and unthinking until it’s time to start all over again. Over and over and over. That’s what she knows. 

It’s safe. Home.

But this — this _feeling,_ it’s still there, lodged in her psyche like a .50 caliber. No outlet. No room to move. No intention of subsiding anytime soon.

And it makes Anita want to do anything but concentrate. 

But thankfully, Ajay’s here. With a gnarly flesh wound off the muzzle of an EVA-8, with an ashtray full of shrapnel that she’s tweezed from her own arm, she’s here.

Calm. Present.

Helping her is the least Anita can do.

“A’right, now,” Ajay says, tone commanding Anita’s attention. “You want to take the suture in the holder. Be slow with it. Want’a get it right.”

Ajay relaxes into the couch, propping her arm up on the rest, giving Anita a clear view. She waits, expectant, holding a disinfectant wipe to the wound. Che’s got years of experience working in the Frontier Corps — aiding the impoverished systems, the colonies ripped apart by the war, stripped of resources. Cleaning up the bodies, the unrest, the poverty and the anguish; the mess the likes of Bangalore leave behind, unthinking of the consequences. 

Anita’s surprised Ajay can so much as _look_ at her, never mind be friendly. Knowing what she’s seen in the colonies, knowing what the IMC can do. What Anita can do, what she has done — 

(What she would do again, if it meant going home.)

Anita picks up the needle tongs, takes the suture wire between her fingers. Steel cool against her palm, thread hard like fishing wire. 

And — _shit_ — for the first time in years, Anita feels nervous. 

The infamous, courageous _Bangalore_ — nervous in her ability, in her aptitude. God _damn_ it. She laughs to herself, low, hollow. It’s an unfamiliar sensation. Haven’t felt this way since the academy. Since she was a teen in bootcamp; with a Peacekeeper, a timer, and a hawk-eyed instructor staring down on her.

Now, she can break down a Peacekeeper no problem. But that’s all speed, and weapons don’t feel pain. Gotta keep the integrity of the parts, sure, but she doesn’t get a twinge of guilt when she breaks a spring. Knows she’s gonna feel a helluva lot more than that if she screws this, like she almost did in the arena, like she did on Hestia with Jackie and — 

Anita starts to guide the suture to the tongs. Line it up, release; fix the thread in the holder.

Simple. Easy. 

No problem.

Except it is.

The wire juts small, jagged movements she can’t predict. Something tugging on the wire, pulling it up, down, like recoil patterns she can’t control. Anita’s trying to compensate. But it won’t line up. Won’t go through. 

Can’t line it up steady. 

That’s when it clicks that her hands are shaking. They’re shaking and she can’t cool it. Anita keeps her sight down, fixed on the wire, trying to just get it through before Ajay notices. 

Can’t figure out why she’s clamming up like this. 

She’s _calm_ for God’s sake, as calm as she’s ever going to fucking be — 

And the tremor spreads over the rest of her body like a rash. It’s in her legs, her chest, a single flame catching to wildfire. The kind that torches cities, reduces colonies to ash and sets them all alight in the name of war she was born into, a war she can’t imagine the world without. There’s this heavy crush against her chest, ribs digging into her lungs; legs bouncing rhythmic, like impulse. _Tap-tap-tap_ like the pull of the trigger, the beat of a drum. 

(The drums you used to play with Jackie, when you did send offs for the others. Praying they come back from deployment. But you didn’t play the drums. You sang. He played guitar. Why don’t remember, ‘Nita? Don’t you _care,_ anymore — ?) 

Anita sucks a sharp breath through her teeth, tries to relieve the pressure, but it keeps getting worse. Her throat’s all tight, mouth dry. 

And it’s too much. Too much.

She tries to steady. Steady like in the academy, like in the Games.

But she can’t. 

This doesn’t happen. It happens to the FNG — the _fucking new guy_ on base with no damn experience — but not Bangalore. Not best in season Bangalore, best in class Williams, not her. Not with hundreds of kills and an affinity for weaponry you’ve never fucking seen before — with a skillset that leaves you in fucking _awe_ of her, time after time, and you wish you were this fucking good at putting bodies in the ground and —

And — 

Anita thinks of her brother. 

Thinks of the Games, her face strewn across the Outlands and Jackie’s still not contacted her. Years of radio silence. No letters, not even something discrete to just let her know he’s out there, somewhere. Thinks maybe he’s dead, or worse — maybe he doesn’t want anything to do with her. Not after what she’s done in the arena, not after creating _Bangalore_ , a fucking caricature of what it means to be a solider, a shadow of the real thing. Or maybe it’s the IMC that doesn’t want her back, or maybe the 401st is all blown to pieces, too, just space debris drifting across the galaxy. ‘Cause that’s all it is, ‘Nita, that’s what you fucking said was making noise on the hull.

But it wasn’t. It fucking wasn’t.

And now he’s gone.

Now they’re all gone.

Still have some fragments, though. Of him. Of Hestia. Before it all fell apart. Strewn out in her head, buried deep in her subconscious. Pieces of memory that surface, disjointed, broken apart. She’ll remember his laugh — this low reverb deep in his chest, the way it echoes out on the hull. How safe she feels with him. How they’re only two ticks from safety. 

But then the light comes. Pinpricks of white behind him that turn into gaping holes, with the hull peeling away in strips. She’ll remember the noise that comes before and how she tells him it’s nothing. Jackie comes back to the surface and his smile’s gone, face twisted with pain. 

Next he’s falling, free falling — reaching for her — when the depressurization hits, and the icy chill of space chokes her. She’ll fight back, she’ll try and scream and wail and call for him until her throat closes, mind darkens, lost to the expanse. 

Can’t see. Can’t hear. Can’t feel anything, and — 

She just doesn’t want to be alone. 

That’s all. 

Doesn’t want anyone else to disappear. 

But that’s impossible to hope for in a war. It’s impossible to hope for in the grisly fucking bloodsport that is the _Apex Games._

Everyone’s temporary. Expendable. And instead of being this stoic, level headed hardass she should — _needs_ — to be, Anita is the opposite. She wants to hold onto the few people she has left that much harder, give them everything, anything — to keep them safe. Alive.

Here. 

(And if she can’t do that — ?)

Anita places the tongs back on the table, admitting defeat. She’s shaking so much she can barely set them down.

Her chest’s heaving now. Crushing harder, pressing _tighter._ Breaths ragged, fast and unsteady, like she can’t get enough air. Her head’s a mess of moves and countermoves and she can’t stop second guessing herself, her decision to even be here. She wonders — how long until she’s off this rock? How long until this all falls apart, like every other time she’s felt something close to safety, something close to happiness. How long until she loses Ajay, same as she loses everyone —

“Hey, hey,” Ajay whispers, concerned, reaching over with her good side. Hand firm on Anita’s shoulder. “‘Nita. Breathe, ‘Nita. Slow.” 

She snaps back like a bullet. Blinking, dazed. Distant from herself.

Anita nods. Swallows thick, eyes shut, lulling her head down. Focus on Ajay’s grip on her shoulder, hand slipping under her vest, rubbing the muscle. Feels the pressure, skin on skin; uses it like an anchor. Bring her down, down. Back to the present. Push all the bullshit away, focus on her breathing. Short inhale through her nose; long, slow exhale from her mouth. Break the loop. Hard reset.

One, two. Keep it going.

“Damn,” is all Anita thinks to say, voice thick. “You’re the one cut open and you’re calming me down. Should be the other way around.” 

Ajay holds her shoulder, keeping the pressure. “It’s alright, ‘Nita.”

Frontier Doc had a name for this the one time they met, way back. Called it _hypervigilance_ or something to that effect. Can’t compartmentalize the battlefield, so it follows you. Keeps you there because that’s the safest place for your mind to be. Always ready for a fight, radar always going, searching for threats. Ready, always, to shoot first. Run every scenario in circles. Off base, on base, it doesn’t matter. It all bleeds together, impossible to set apart.

Keep that radar firing for too long, though, and it starts to ping back false positives. A howl of wind starts to sound like artierly flying past the window. Rain hitting against the glass sounds tapping a trigger. And a growl of thunder overhead becomes the distant quake of Titanfall, a sound that turns Anita inside out, paralyzed with fear. It’s all the time. Every night. Runs her nerves like fuses, burning too long, too bright. And all it takes is a sound she doesn’t recognize to make Anita jolt from her cot, halfway between waking and sleeping, shaking with adrenaline. Caught in a fire that burns and keeps burning, anxiety she can’t get away from. 

Until Anita becomes fully awake, and reality sets in.

The noise is just a soft, quiet knock on the door. Ajay is on the other side. 

There’s no Militia. There’s nothing — no one — that wants to kill her. 

It’s all in the arena. It all _stays_ inside the arena. 

So Anita sits at the end of her bed. Steels herself, composure set. 

Like it never happened.

Anita never saw that Doc again, though. He figured she was IMC soon enough, and that’s when she had to go. And go. And _keep_ going, until she barreled headfirst into Blisk and the Syndicate and the Apex Games. 

Where everything makes _sense._ Where everything is clear. Where Bangalore thrives.

It's all just the comedown from the Games. Nothing from her time in the IMC. That’s what she tells herself. It’ll go. It has to.

Anita looks up, and Ajay’s just watching her. Anita meets her eyes. Wonder what she’d have to say if she had a peak inside this head of hers.

“Sorry,” Anita finds herself saying, voice quiet. “Fuckin’ shakes.” 

There’s a silence.

“Don’t want to hurt you,” Anita says, clumsy, like that’s supposed to explain everything. 

Ajay raises a brow. Of course — the ex-IMC grunt is suddenly concerned she’s going to _hurt_ somebody, much less an Apex Champion? Ironic. Still, she feels the judgement, no matter how slight it is. Lets it roll off her.

“Pain’s there already,” Ajay says after a pause. “You’re helpin’ it get better. That’s what counts.” 

There’s a kindness to her voice that Anita doesn’t expect. Doesn’t expect to put her at ease, but somehow, Ajay does. Doesn’t take it all away. But it helps. It helps for sure. Now she’s just got to get it together, just long enough to get Ajay fixed up. You can do that, Williams. 

Breathe in.

Breathe out. 

“Okay,” Anita says. “Tell me what to do, Doc. Again.”

“Stitch the middle, first,” Ajay says. “Work your way from there.”

Anita nods. She’s used to taking the lead in the field, so it’s odd to be told what to do. But she’s confident, not arrogant. She’ll take an opportunity to learn whenever she can. 

Ajay talks her through the first stitch step by step. How tight to pull, how to tie off the thread, how to ensure you’ve got a good stitch. Keeps her voice clear and measured the entire time, even though it’s obvious she’s biting back the pain. It takes real steel to keep so calm, collected, even with some schmuck trying to stop you from catching a nasty infection. It’s impressive. A demonstration of how brilliant Ajay is, but Anita knew that already. She’s a fierce medic, a wicked shot with a wingman, and, unsurprisingly, a great teacher. 

Anita feels more confident as she goes, finding confidence with her technique. Still intensely mindful; cautious in her approach, but they’re getting through it. She takes a pause after each stitch to pace the pain, working in a similar way to how they work together in the Games. When you strip back the show moves for the cameras, the personas they amp up for the sponsors, for the press, where her and Ajay excel is playing the long game. Slow, steady. Get it right.

Ajay goes quiet. Closes her eyes again. Breathes long, deep, relaxing into the couch. Anita takes this as a good sign, and hopes that Ajay knows she’s being taken care of. Knows to trust her — hopefully. 

They’re a team, after all. They keep each other alive. This is what they’re good at. 

It takes time, but Anita finds her way with the stitching. Hook it through the skin, pull, tie off each suture. Rinse, repeat. Work from the middle. One last twist of the thread, and she’s done. Bangalore pulls away, shifts her weight; legs numb from sitting on this damn coffee table for so long. 

“So— how’d I do, Doc?” Anita asks, stilted, setting down the tongs one last time. She sounds sarcastic, but she wants to know. 

There’s a brief silence. Anita watches Ajay examine her arm.

“Why, would ya look at that,” Ajay says, chipper, admiring Anita’s handiwork. “Not bad. Not bad at all, ‘Nita.” 

“Are you sure?” Anita asks, sudden, despite herself. “We can signal a dropship back to the Apex Center, get it looked at by someone. I can pay for it—”

“Do ya see me dyin’ here?” Ajay interrupts, playful. 

“No,” Anita says. 

“So ya did a’right, rook,” Ajay says, assuring, nudging Anita’s shoulder. Huh. _Rook._ Parroting one of Anita’s many quips to her, enjoying the small moment of superiority. Ajay leans back, kicks her legs up on the coffee table. “‘Sides,” Ajay continues, “You had _me_ as ya teacher. We had nothing to worry about.” 

“Of course,” Anita chuckles. “Hell. You’re as cocky as ever, Che. Which is a good sign.”

Ajay laughs again. “Yuh damn right.” 

Anita takes a moment to look at her. She’s effortlessly beautiful. Eyes bright, alive — this deep, rich hazel, with a smile that’ll make your heart melt. She taps a beat with her boots, thrumming her fingers on the couch. Always moving, exuding energy. It’s all surface, though; Anita’s spent enough time together to see she’s exhausted, even in spite of her lively exterior. Eyes struggling to stay open, dark circles underneath. Hasn’t slept since the Games. 

She’s running on fumes. They both are.

“You look pretty beat,” Anita says, earnest. Holds Ajay’s gaze for one, two, before Anita shifts, the feeling like reflex. She sets to her feet, swallows, moving to the door. “I, um, I hope your arm feels better—”

“Not so fast, _S_ ergeant Anita Williams,” Ajay says, light, words rolling careless off her tongue. Anita stills. It’s been so long since she’s been called anything other than just Bangalore, no mention of her rank, her time in the IMC. Not that it’s a secret — her dogtags rest on her chest for all to see. Rest there like a reminder, a warning, a part of the persona; something she can hold, tangible, her only keepsake from Hestia. From home. 

Ajay must’ve read them while she was stitching her. 

Anita turns, staying in the doorway. She leans against the frame, guarded; arms folded tight. Hand reaching for her tags, threads her fingers through them, habitual. There’s ‘BL’ inscribed on the front — Bangalore, Champion of the Apex Games — _Sgt. Anita Williams, IMC,_ inscribed on the back. Two sides. Competing sides. 

If only they could be so clearly separate.

“So, seein’ as I helped you with ya stitchin’ skills,” Ajay continues, “How’s about you return the favor and give me some advice about me shootin’?”   
  
“Oh yeah?” Anita says, breaking a small smile. “Depends. How long do you have?” 

Ajay laughs, once. “Hah! Cheeky.”

Anita waits at the door. Waits for more, for them to clash — but it doesn’t come. Ajay looks back to her arm, observing the stitches. 

And that’s it.

It’s not what Anita expects. The IMC’s got a bad rep in this part of the Frontier — some of it justified, maybe more Anita can’t bring herself to accept — but Ajay doesn’t take it there. It catches Anita by surprise. She’s been hit with questions and insults and threats ever since she crash landed on this damn planet. 

But with Ajay, there’s civility. A mutual respect. Maybe it comes from competing in the Games together — because when you’re in the arena, nothing else matters. IMC title doesn’t mean shit. Neither does whatever the Milita’s peddling to get you on side. It all fades away, and all that’s left is you, your squad, and the timer ticking on your wrist. Everyone’s the same — First Blood or Champion of the Apex Games; that’s the only difference that matters now. 

Anita pushes from the door, sitting down on the couch; arm stretched over the back of the couch, body turned toward Ajay. 

“You want real tips from me, Che,” Anita starts, calm, “We should hit the range at the Apex Center. Got a simulation rig all set up for us to use. It’s good. Expensive, but — good. Like what I had back in the IMC.” 

Ajay turns to her, cocks a brow. She hums, toying with her credit chit. “Aah. Just as I was going to cash out for some caviar.” 

“Yeah,” Anita says, “I wouldn’t recommend that. Maybe some steak, though. Protein.”

“Mmm, _steak,_ ” Ajay murmurs. “Better than the ramen packs I got back ‘ere.” 

Anita bites the inside of her cheek. Hums, thinking.

“Alright,” Anita says, “We shoot some holos in the sim, and I’ll set us up in the Apex Lounge. Best steak on Solace. How’s that sound?” 

“Hmm,” Ajay pouts, deliberating. "I like the sound’a that. You got ya self a date, soldier.” 

Anita smiles. “My way of saying thank you. For saving my ass in the Ring.” 

Ajay smiles back. Reaches for her hand and squeezes tight. “I know what’s good for ya,” she murmurs. “Gotta let me be there.” 

“Speakin’ of,” Ajay continues, animated, “I’m thinkin’ it’s about time we celebrate that win, don’tcha think?” Ajay reaches over the back of the couch and fishes two glasses from the side unit, setting them down on the coffee table. She glances over her shoulder to Anita, rum in hand. “Drink for yuh?”

“Hell yeah,” Anita says, quiet. 

Ajay smiles. Turns back, pours a shot for Anita, one more for herself. Passes Anita’s over, holds her own; motions for Anita to clink her glass. Anita takes the hint, offering it up. 

“To a healthy, _happy_ squad,” Ajay toasts, clinking Anita’s glass. She knocks back her shot, takes the liquor like a champ, biting against the edge of it. “And to no more'a Mirage taking chunks out me arm,” she continues, coarse, setting her glass down. 

Anita laughs, following suit. Feels the warmth in her chest, fruity taste in her mouth. Cuts the lead and steel into something more palatable, softer. Rounded at the edges. She thrums her nails against the empty glass, habitual, before she sets it back down. She leans back, settling into the couch. Doesn’t have the razor-sharp urge to spring back up.

Could go as far and say she actually feels _relaxed._ Or near to it. Tired without the urge to push herself to blackout exhaustion. Everything’s calm, quiet, with shafts of light casting over the table. Reflects the gold thread on Bloth’s tapestry.

There’s no fight. No war. No threat. And it’s like ten years of tiredness catch up with her all at once, because hell, she could go to sleep right here. 

Anita’s shoulders drop, eyes threaten to close, until — 

Ajay pulls out her drumsticks and runs a beat over the edge of the table, a broken drumroll to catch Anita’s attention. She blinks awake, looking over. Ajay sets her sticks aside, pulls out a pack of holotapes from her pack. Stacks of songs from all parts of the Frontier — places she’s served for the Frontier Corps, soaked the culture; brought a piece back with her. 

“Some background nose while we take a little kip, eh?” Ajay offers. “We could walk the market later too, if ya want. Get somethin’ sweet. Those churros you like.” 

Anita nods with a sleepy smile. “Yeah. Sounds good.” 

Ajay hums in agreement. Trails the stack with her finger, plucks a tape out. A flash of neon green plastic, covered in stickers, worn at the edges. Snaps it into her radio. A whirr from the case and the speakers come alive with music. Tinny, crackled with static; a low murmur in the background. Slow, rhythmic beats, sweeping synths. New-Age Frontier stuff. It’s... _good,_ actually. Easy to listen to. Not something Anita would typically play, or admit to Ajay that she likes.

“‘Nita,” Ajay asks after a pause, sitting up. “You mind?” 

It takes a moment to click what she’s asking. 

“Oh — sure,” Anita replies, clumsy. “No need to ask, Ajay.”

“I like to,” Ajay says, shuffling over. “Ya jumpier than Silva sometimes.”

Ajay kicks off her boots and hikes up her knees, curling into Anita’s side. She wraps an arm around Anita’s waist, and Anita feels Ajay’s body warm against her, head rested on her chest. Anita adjusts, moves so they’re both comfortable; arm around Ajay’s shoulder, mindful of the wound. Ajay slips a hand under Anita’s vest, palm over the flat of her stomach, fingertips tracing muscle. Anita relaxes into the contact, and absently runs her hand through Ajay’s hair; a silky-soft spill of auburn across her chest.

“Ya listen to me most of the time. So I want ya to listen real good right now,” Ajay starts, murmuring against her. “No more antics in the Ring, ya hear me?” She says, voice firmer, but still quiet. “I don’t trust those triage chambers. Not for a moment. We stick together, we won’t need to think about usin’ ‘em.” 

The chambers are the gold standard for a Legend when things go bad in the Ring. When things go _real_ bad — blown to pieces bad; skin burnt off, more shrapnel than flesh, anything you can imagine. Crazy expensive, but bring you back like nothing else. All owned by the Syndicate, no idea how they manage it. Anita’s been in a few times. Depending on the severity, she’ll come back in the same match; sometimes, when the wounds are more severe, she’s gone for days. 

“They patch us up good,” Anita says. “Keep us in one piece. You gotta admit that’s a luxury this far out in the Frontier.” 

“Ya can’t _count_ on the Syndicate, ‘Nita,” Ajay says, looking up to her, an edge of frustration in her voice. “We’re nothin’ more than toys for ‘em. You think when the new blood rolls in they’re gonna be dotin’ after us? Nah. Not so shiny and new anymore.”

“Already got the invitationals going,” Anita says after a pause; seeing the stark reality. How long until another ex-soldier turns up? How long until they start taking in Pilots, too — even without the Titan, they’ve had their neurons fried and rewired so many times they’re on a whole other level. No way she could compete against someone like that. And then what happens? 

Anita sighs, low. 

Sometimes you don’t want to admit you’re just fodder. 

“I tell ya, they’re gonna bleed us dry — so I’m gonna make sure I bleed them dry first. And you gotta be there with me, ‘Nita,” Ajay continues, earnest. “I know how this works. I seen more’a the war than you know. Seen when people just see ya as profit. What happens when ya don’t stick together.” Her voice catches. “I’ve seen — too much.” 

“I know,” Anita replies, soft. She doesn’t know. Doesn’t know the details, the same way Ajay doesn’t know the grisly insides of Anita’s field record. But she knows that feeling. Hears it in her voice. Anita runs her hands through her hair, soothes her. “Won’t run blind again. I promise.” 

“You don’t — need to risk ya’self for me, ‘Nita,” Ajay sighs, sleepy. “Just want you here. Miss ya when you’re gone.”

She holds Anita tighter, and Anita lets her in. 

“I got you, Ajay,” Anita replies. “I got you.” 

_Always got you._

Ajay goes quiet. She’s asleep in minutes. Breaths deep, body heavy against her. Anita closes her eyes. Lets the music run through her head. She won’t sleep, though, not with Ajay sleeping too. Always gotta have a watcher out in the field; you’re risking you and your squad if you don’t. 

They’re a solid unit, whatever that entails. Until that time comes, though — 

She’ll be here. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from **[1,000,000](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=557Li-vqemg) **by **Nine Inch Nails.**  
> 
>
>> I jump from every rooftop  
> (Is this really all? Is it?)   
> So high so far to fall   
> I feel a million miles away  
> I don’t feel anything at all  
> But I still need more more more  
> 
> 
> (pls leave a kudos and/or a comment if you enjoyed!)


End file.
